The strumming fingertips are like the waning moon, an indistinct flame illuminating the path beyond these scattered days.
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In the sound that remains after the cold echoes disappear, the night continues, permeating far and wide.
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A road leading to the moon, a faint scent, a corner of my hazy field of view...
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I got it wrong because they say that it's a simple thing - I was crying?
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The color that I painted is a little different from the sky I wished for, somehow.
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With the distorted stage at my back, I was paralyzed, unable to move,
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And next thing I knew, I'd come to a distant, faraway place,
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On the underside of my restless, insignificant heart, past, present, and future linger a distance away, but never far.
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I sing as though spitting out - bitter feelings, a brief passing rain.
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They that it's a simple thing, but I doubted it - I was crying.
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A voice like the sea spilled out, echoing through the silence.
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With my hands covering my ears from the ringing, unable to pull away,
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I looked down, and I'd come to a distant, elevated place,
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All alone, carrying nothing.
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Strumming fingertips and the sight of the waning moon, announcing to the scattered days the end and the beginning.
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The sound that surfaces, riding on glittering words, takes the quivering memories to an unexplored world.
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The color that I painted is a little different from the sky I wished for,
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But then I uncovered my ears and stretched out my hands.
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Every single thing that disappeared beyond my reach has let me become who I am,
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All alone, the only one of me.
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